


Her Alibi

by Whytejigsaw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:25:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whytejigsaw/pseuds/Whytejigsaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly is framed for a murder and claims she has no alibi.  Lestrade investigates and John Watson assists but what is Molly hiding?  Spoilers for all s1/s2 and betaed by Thinkswithpen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thursday Afternoon

Lestrade surveyed the crime scene. God, he really needed Sherlock now but no, he had to go and jump off a building! And Moriarty was still at large. He hated to admit how dependent they had become on Sherlock Holmes. This particular crime scene had all the hallmarks of the master criminal. The body of a late 40s man was opened on a table in an abandoned warehouse. It was like he had been partially autopsied already but this was how they found him. No obvious sign of death. There were no personal effects on the body so for now all they could say was their John Doe was neatly groomed and didn't do manual labour, judging by his hands. Lestrade was quite proud of his small deduction – perhaps Sherlock had rubbed off on him after all.

Anderson was collecting samples.

"Lestrade, we've found a single long brown hair, so we're probably looking for a woman. We'll analyse it for DNA in case she's in the database."

Lestrade nodded.

"Molly, I suppose you know why you've been brought in?" said Lestrade.

"No, Greg. I know I've been arrested on suspicion of involvement in a murder but I have no idea what's about."

Molly looked awful: visibly nervous, pale, upset, worried. Greg fought the urge to hug her. The chances of Molly Hooper having killed anyone, let alone this man, seemed slim. She had all the obvious signs of innocence: guilty people were usually calmer, having worked out a story in advance.

"Ok. Here's what we've got. We found a partially autopsied body of a man in a disused warehouse. The room was devoid of furniture and tools, save the table he was lying on. Anderson says he's dead between 40 – 45 hours. We found a single long brown hair on the floor, which, I'm sorry to say, is yours. You know all hospital employees have samples on file now? That's how we found it."

Molly unconsciously fingered her hair, bound in a single side plait.

"What? I don't understand. How could my hair be there? I had nothing to do with this?"

Greg slide over a photo of the man – a close up of his face. At least Molly wouldn't be squeamish about seeing a dead body.

"So you don't recognise him?"

She looked carefully before confirming "no, not at all."

"That's what I figured. Where were you the night before last? I have to ask. Do you have an alibi?"

Molly's mind flashed back to the previous Tuesday night. No. She couldn't talk about that. She was afraid to even think it in case something showed in her face. Of course, only Sherlock would be able to deduce whereabouts from a look and ironically, he was the only person could prove her alibi. But when your alibi is officially dead, that's just not going to cut it.

So finally, she said in a small desperate voice "Greg, I don't have one. I was at home alone. That's where I am most nights since… I don't suppose cats count?" she trailed off with a weak smile.

"Yeah, that's what I was afraid of. Look, Molly, I know you didn't do this but we've got your DNA at the scene and a half done autopsy, which you have the skills to perform. We'll have to hold you for now. You'll need a solicitor – do you know someone?"

She shook her head.

"Right, we'll call the public defenders service. Can I call anyone else for you?"

"Yes, eh, would you call John Watson?"

"Molly, are you sure? He's been a wreck since Sherlock's death. Barely leaves Baker St."

"I know. I've seen him too but maybe helping me will give him something to focus on."

A surprisingly lucid idea for someone accused of murder, thought Lestrade.

"Ok, I'll call him."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is going to hop around time periods but I'll make it clear when this happens. Just after the Christmas party scene in Scandal in Belgravia.

The night of Sherlock and John's Christmas party was a low point. Molly had made such an effort with her appearance, and Sherlock had been his usual, horrible self. Worse than that though was the fact that she loved him anyway, painfully accurate comments and all. She'd taken solace in the knowledge that he was like that with everyone, that there was no man or woman who could soften him. That thought lasted until later the same evening when she'd seen him identify a woman from her naked body and be so visibly moved that he'd actually reverted to smoking. He'd left the room and Molly had run over to the nearest sink to vomit. Having a mangled body in the room was just a cover for the real cause.

Sherlock had been mortified when he finally realised Molly's neatly wrapped present was meant for him. It was the first time in his life he'd ever felt this way and it was awful. It made him feel ordinary and fallible. Was this what mundane people felt like when they got it wrong? How did they bear it? He'd apologised, of course, he knew it was the correct procedure, even without looking at John. And then, god, the ring tone, of all the most inopportune times… Later in the morgue, he'd identified The Woman from her body rather than her face and had hurt Molly all over again, in a different way. He'd noticed of course, but he'd filed it away to consider later.

When the case was over, many months later, Sherlock found himself thinking about Molly once again. Somehow, some time in their 3 year acquaintance, she'd gone from taking a drawer in a filing cabinet marked "Barts" to occupying a full room of her own in his mind palace. The room was messy, disordered and filled with remarks like "one cat, black and white fur", "hair looks lovely down but she never wears it that way, impractical for work" and "nervous laugh around me but not with others". He'd barely noticed it but gradually she'd come to be important. With John, they'd clicked immediately, two lost people needing companionship, a respect that grew exponentially after John saved his life. Molly was always there, her incessant chatter and quiet devotion a calming influence. John had even remarked that he, Sherlock, spent so much time at the morgue that maybe they should look into getting their own! It was only then that he realised his own lab would be missing an essential component. But was Dr Hooper's addition to the admittedly very short list of "people who counted" significant in itself? No, he told himself.

The Present – Thursday evening

Sherlock paced the living room of his current prison: a small flat in Paddington. He had expected Molly with supplies 3 hours ago. It wasn't like her to be late. Urgencies in the morgue were not exactly common, especially with me gone, he thought grimly. He regretted her insistence that they not communicate by text. Though of course Molly was right: he could never admit that - however much closer than had grown since he'd so publicly embarrassed her the previous Christmas. That moment had led to another fateful evening when he asked her to help him fake her death. She'd stepped up of course. Helped with the actual cover-up, then found this flat, visited him regularly with food, nicotine patches and even a violin. His cover story was that he was an agoraphobic musician. Molly disseminated this story to one or two neighbours, and explained that he never came out. It covered why she went there so regularly with her own set of keys and why they heard music being played at times. Of course, she didn't come every day, and when she did, they were careful to vary it. Not that many people would pay attention to Molly Hooper, but one couldn't be too careful. So where the bloody hell was she today?

The same evening: at the police station

Lestrade put down the phone. The conversation with John Watson had been a challenge. John had barely seemed interested in picking up. Lestrade had explained succinctly what had occurred, and that Molly had requested John's presence. It wasn't exactly correct procedure to allow visitors but he was making an exception this time. There was no bloody way that cute doctor had killed a man: he just needed a way to prove it. He'd said as much to John.

"I'm telling you, John, she's hiding something. She'd hardly have some secret boyfriend? Maybe a married man?"

"Greg, I think that may be wishful thinking on your part," said John, a flash of his previous sarky personality showing. "But I'll come over. Be about an hour, ok?"

"Great, thanks, mate."

John arrived within the hour. He looked older, tired, and had lost some weight. Lestrade hurried down to meet him.

"John, good to see you. I'll take you to Molly."

"I don't know what I can do."

"I think she just needs a friendly face. She doesn't have any family, you know."

"None at all?"

"No, parents both dead, and no siblings."

"That's awful…I never realised. I presume that's why she works so much….nothing to go home to."

"Yeah, look, she's through there. See if you can get anything out of her."

John nodded and opened the door to the interrogation room.

Molly looked up.

"Oh John, thank you for coming." She jumped up and hugged him.

"How have you been?" she asked, as if they were just meeting for coffee and a chinwag.

"Ok, I guess. Never mind that. What's happened with you?"

"I'm being framed, John. I think it's Moriarty. Who else would have some of my hair? I've nothing to prove it, of course, and no alibi. But I thought maybe you could…" she bit her lip.

"I'm not him."

"I know that."

They stared silently at each other, the ghost of Sherlock between them.

"I'll do what I can," John said finally. "But surely you saw someone on Tuesday night. Did you go to a shop that might have CCTV?"

"No," she replied, her lips tightly pressed together.

"Do you think they'll let me go?"

"Probably on bail. Do you have money?"

"Yes, as long as it's not thousands I can probably cover it. A not very active social life leads to a healthy savings account."

"Alright, well, can you let me go to your flat? Maybe I'll pick up a hint of something?"

"Er, yes, I guess so. They took my stuff but maybe Greg can get you my keys?"

"I'll ask. Don't worry, Molly. We'll sort this out. Everyone's on your side."

He got up and left, leaving Molly to worry. As if she could avoid it!


	3. The night after the Fall

Sherlock heard keys in the door and stood up. It could only be Molly.

"Sherlock, are you here?"

"Of course, where else would I be?"

Molly regarded him. He looked pale and drawn, worried and most unlike his usual self.

"How did it go? Are they safe? Leave nothing out."

He listened, interjecting occasionally with questions, as Molly detailed the fake autopsy, how she'd held John as he cried, Lestrade's fury at Sherlock's suicide and Mrs Hudson's silent mourning. Mycroft had appeared of course, and as instructed, Molly had done her best to stay away from him. Far too clever by half, Sherlock and she had agreed he'd have the truth out of her in no time. For now, everyone was safe. She saved the worst news for last.

"Sherlock, there was no body on the roof. Some blood and a gun, but he wasn't there."

The detective was uncharacteristically silent for a moment.

"I expected something like this. We'll have to be very careful. He'll probably lay low for a while like me."

Molly nodded.

"Is the flat ok? I didn't have much time. I'll bring you clothes and other supplies tomorrow."

"No, not tomorrow. We have to be careful about how often you come here. Moriarty could be watching you. It's unlikely – if he knew you were on the radar you would have had your own personal assassin – but I don't want to take chances. I ate yesterday, so I'll be fine for another couple of days. Bored out of mind but ok."

"Oh wait, I have things." Molly rifled through her bag and produced a bar of Cadburys dairy milk, a copy of Hello magazine, notebook and pen, and a mp3 player.

"There's a radio on this – you could listen to news or whatever. You probably don't want the magazine but I'll leave it anyway"

"Thanks."

"It's going to be alright, Sherlock." Molly impulsively put her arms around him and hugged. He looked down at the small woman who was trying to hug him back to life. He cautiously put one arm around her waist and squeezed experimentally. Odd, he did actually feel better. She pulled back, looking contrite, but amazingly, not apologising.

"Right, think of a way to contact me in an emergency while you're hanging around and I'll see you in a couple of days. I'll bring dinner after work."

She gathered her things and left. Sherlock looked around his empty rental flat. Cheap IKEA furniture and not a jot of personality. He wasn't sure how long he'd be calling this place home but already it felt like an eternity.

Having obtained Molly's keys, John headed for the nearest Tube station. Without Sherlock's influence, he had reverted to cheaper and less convenient modes of transport. Someday, he might learn to drive, but there didn't seem to be a point currently. Having never been to Molly's flat before, he wasn't sure what to expect the door of the modern built, 3rd floor apartment, swung open. It was all very neutral, brown couch, ordinary prints on the walls, beige carpet, owh, hungry cat! A small furry monster hurled itself at his legs and hissed. That decided his first action and went straight to find some food for it.

"So Mr Cat, where does Molly keep your food?" After a few tries, in which John found crockery, alcohol and jam, he opened the right cupboard and spooned out some vile smelling cat food into a dish on the floor. The cat had his nose in it before he had the first spoonful down. Leaving him to it, John went back to the main room and looked around. She wasn't much of a reader but there was a large music collection on media ranging from LP to mp3. He idly wondered why music formats were always reduced to letters. Her laptop was on the table but he hadn't thought ask her for a password, and that seemed above and beyond what he was doing now. What was he doing now? John tried to imagine what it would be like if Sherlock was here.

He would have swept into the room, looking all mysterious with his coat. Once glance around would be all he'd need and then he would say things like:

"Orphan. No family photos. Afraid to stamp your personality on this space, even though you own it. Catholic taste in music. One cat for company. Tidy, as reflects your scientific training."

John smiled at his false memory of what Sherlock would have said. He moved into Molly's bedroom. It felt cheeky to be in here. Probably Moriarty was the last man in here, he thought uncharitably. She hadn't had time to tidy before she left that morning. The curtains were still pulled and the bed unmade. The room had that musty air of winter when the window doesn't get opened enough. His eyes lit on her dressing table. Girl stuff – make-up, hair accessories, tissues, a solitary photo of a much younger Molly with (presumably) her parents. Anyone getting in here could easily have taken a hair from her brush. There was nothing here from which to deduce anything. Again he wished for Sherlock, as if wishing and taping his heels together three times could make him appear.

The last room was the bathroom. Small, functional and a hotel level of clean, he saw it immediately. There, on the shower door, was a message, written in what looked like pink lipstick.

I WON'T LEAVE YOU OFF THE LIST THIS TIME

John didn't know what it meant but he was pretty certain of its author. He whipped out his mobile and, taking a picture, fired it over to Lestrade with the comment "Molly's bathroom." Taking care not to touch anything, he left the room and went back out to sit on the couch. In his haste, he forgot that Moriarty had actually been the last man in her room.

Lestrade, Anderson and a tech team arrived in record time.

"Where's Molly?"

"We're keeping her at the station until we get all this recorded. No one needs to see their flat get the CSI treatment," said Lestrade.

Of course, the place was clean. Not a trace of hair or anything else that didn't belong to Molly or her cat. Just a very menacing missive that John took great delight in taking the bathroom cleaner too. He rang a locksmith and called in a favour in Sherlock's name. By the time Lestrade returned with a shaken but relieved Molly, John had the place cleared, the kettle on and a new set of keys for her.

"Just in case."

She seemed to be handling it well, but then she hadn't seen the message. Of course, Greg had given her the details but hearing it and seeing it were two different experiences.

"I'll stay the night on the couch, if you like?"

"No! That's really kind of you to offer, John, but I'll be fine. Thank you for arranging the new locks so quickly."

John was surprised but readily acquiesced to sleeping in his own bed. After a quick cup of tea, he headed for Baker St and left Molly on her own.

Once she was, she tore into action. Within an hour, she had showered and was ready to go. Glancing out her window, she was glad it looked over the front of the building. She wouldn't have put it passed John to stand outside watching but there wasn't a sign of anyone. Picking up her bag, and went back out into the night.


	4. Midnight, the same night

Sherlock was almost ready to affect a prison break by the time he heard keys in the door. Rushing over to it, he grabbed Molly by the shoulders.

"What is it? What happened? I've been going mad. Are you alright?"

Before she could get more than a squeak out, he drew her in close and hugged her as if it were an everyday occurrence. It was over almost immediately. Holding her at arms length, his eyes roved over her, looking for clues. Molly knew if she waited long enough, he'd have the whole thing figured out on his own.

"Moriarty's back. He killed a man, got someone to start a post-mortem and planted my hair at the scene. I was held in the police station for a few hours until John went to my flat and found a note left for me that made it clear Moriarty was involved."

"What note? Tell me exactly."

"It was written in lipstick on my shower door and said "I won't leave you off the list this time" – I didn't see it. John cleaned it off once they had samples and photographed it."

"You need to get your locks changed. What sort of lipstick?"

Molly put her hand on Sherlock's arm.

"No, it's ok. John thought of that and has already done it. I've got my new keys right here."

Sherlock seemed satisfied with this aspect.

"What about the lipstick?"

"I don't know. I'll find out for you. Look, I brought us some late dinner. I haven't eaten either."

"What? Oh leave mine there. I don't need anything, not now there's a case to solve."

"Sherlock! You can't do anything about this. You're dead, remember?"

"Yes, but clearly the point of being dead is negated if Moriarty is still threatening my friends and you."

"Why am I in a separate category?"

"Huh?"

"You said "my friends and you". Am I not your friend?"

"Apparently not."

"What does that mean?!"

Her chin was raised defiantly. The change in Molly was obvious. There had been a time when this kind of loaded conversation would have had her nervous, stuttering and blushing, but after all they had been through since the Fall, she was a stronger woman and much better prepared to deal with Sherlock.

"I don't know, but if your ex-boyfriend has upgraded you, perhaps I should reconsider things too."

"Don't give me that crap. Just admit it. You care about me. You just hugged me, for god's sake! You never do that."

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. "I hugged you before."

"Once, after you'd faked your own death and needed comfort doesn't count. And I started that one."

"It counted to me…"

"Oh. Wait. Is this some weird Stockholm Syndrome thing?"

"No! I do have feelings, you know. That was mean. You're not my jailor."

"Sorry – it's just very weird to hear you admit that, Sherlock. You've previously looked down on us mere mortals with our emotional feelings towards others."

"Well, I've had a lot of time to think in here. I was really worried this evening when you didn't come. You've been my only real contact with the world for so long now. Maybe I will have that dinner," adding, almost as an afterthought, "Will you stay here with me tonight?"

"Absolutely, my flat needs a night alone. Moriarty was in my bathroom. Who knows what else he did?"

"Fine. You can have the couch."

"Rubbish – while you get a whole double-bed to yourself. I don't think so! I've brought pyjamas…we can share the bed."

And that was how Molly and Sherlock found themselves sleeping in the same bed. They both changed in separate rooms. It was all very platonic but once they were actually in the bed, it didn't take long for Molly to scoot over and cuddle into Sherlock. He didn't even mind. Much.

*o***o*

Molly awoke to the sound of her mobile ringing. It was out in the living room. Attempting to move, she realised that Sherlock's arms were wrapped around her.

OH.

No wonder she slept so soundly. This hugging thing seemed to be escalating. As much as she wanted to stay cuddled up with him for, well, forever, it wasn't a good idea to leave her phone unanswered after the events of the previous few days. Molly broke free of his arms, waking him as she did, and got out of the bed. The phone had stopped ringing by the time she got to it. John had left a voicemail.

"Hi Molly. It's John. I'm just checking in with you after last night. Hope you slept ok. I'll call into you at work later for a chat. Bye."

If only he knew how she had slept…

Sherlock emerged from the bedroom rubbing his eyes. His ubiquitous blue dressing gown already back in place. He mumbled something about coffee and made for the kitchen.

"That was John, checking up on me." She followed him into the kitchen, glad she had the morning off work and didn't need to rush away. Wearing the same clothes as the night before would be to raise an eyebrow on the kindest of people.

The smell of the percolating coffee had restored Sherlock's power of speech.

"John wouldn't notice something like that."

Damn him, can he always read my mind? Out loud, she added, "Actually, you're wrong. Most people are attuned to that kind of thing but usually because they suspect it means juicy gossip."

"I don't understand."

"Wearing yesterday's clothes means you slept somewhere away from home unexpectedly. What's the most likely reason for that, Sherlock?"

He looked pensive.

"Oh I see. You're talking about drunken sex with random strangers."

"Well, the drunk part isn't always a given. It might just be unplanned. For example, someone who saw me arrive after midnight last night and leave this morning could reasonably conclude that I'd scored the agoraphobic violinist who lives here."

"Ordinary people would conclude that but I wouldn't."

"Well, you know the truth obviously."

"No, I mean, even if I were just seeing you in the corridor, I could tell."

"How?" Molly did love to hear how he deduced these things.

"Well, for a start, you don't look tired, so you've obviously had a good night's sleep, rather than a debauched night of passion."

Molly giggled at such a ridiculous phrase.

"Secondly, you brought sleeping attire, which you would not have bothered with in the other scenario."

"No one could tell the contents of my bag…that's cheating, Sherlock," she interrupted.

"Quiet, I'm not finished."

"Hmm, now what else? Oh yes, you'd have swollen or chapped lips…possibly some lovebites…and a self-satisfied grin," he concluded.

"All of those things could be explained away by other reasons."

"I don't think people fall down on their neck very often!" he laughed at his own joke.

"Well, whatever you think, I'm in no hurry to test out your theories. The last thing we need is John getting ideas," Molly shuddered at the notion.

"Maybe it's time for my resurrection. Moriarty clearly knows I'm alive – everyone else may as well too."

"Do not even go there! I haven't spent all this time trying to keep you alive and worrying only to have you expose the secret now. Let Moriarty graffiti my shower…if that's the worst that happens, I can deal."

"That's the problem though. It's far from the worst that could happen. I'm not letting him get to you."

"It's sweet of you to be so concerned, Sherlock, but I'm still getting dressed now and heading home. I'll call in tomorrow."

"But we have no way of contacting each other in an emergency."

"He'll hardly try anything again so soon. I'll arrange to see John and spend the evening with him, if that will make you feel better."

"I feel fine! But that is acceptable. I'm going to spend the day planning my return."

Molly shrugged – he was a grown man, even if he didn't always behave that way, and she couldn't stop him. She took her coffee back to the bedroom and dressed in yesterday's clothes, smiling as she imagined John's reaction if he knew she'd shared a bed with Sherlock.

When she returned, he was sitting in a chair, idly strumming his violin in full-on thinking mode.

"Sherlock, I'm off now."

She didn't anticipate any answer, so was surprised to find him stand up and hug her again. This hug lasted longer and had just the right amount of squeeze for someone as tiny as Molly. Even more unexpected was the whisper of "be careful" into her hair. She pulled away, confusion evident in her eyes, wisely deciding not to speak and left before she could change her mind. Sherlock stood there just as perplexed. Today's thoughts would involve more than planning his return.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly got home fairly quickly. She paused as her new keys slid in, thinking how strange it was to have her flat invaded by Moriarty. It was particularly odd since he had been there as "Jim from IT" a couple of times. After a shower and some breakfast, she called John back.

"Hi John. Sorry I missed you. I slept in a bit – not in work until later today."

"That's what I figured. No strange activities during the night then?"

Molly grinned, glad that video phones weren't standard, as she recalled perfect dreamless sleep in Sherlock's bed.

"No, all fine."

"Listen, will we have dinner later? Could get a takeaway at mine?" suggested John.

"Excellent…as long as there can be crap telly too."

"Of course. Now that Sherlock's not here to argue, I am king of the remote control," he paused, obviously feeling bad for complaining.

"It's ok to complain about him. He is, I mean, ah, was, a pain in the arse. What time will I come?"

"Anytime after 6 is fine."

"Great, I'll see you later."

Back in her bedroom, Molly rummaged in her make-up drawer to throw on some mascara and noticed the top off one of her lipsticks. She would never have left it open. Picking it up, she could see it had been mistreated and was struck by the realisation that this must have been what Moriarty had used, and secondly, that it was the same lipstick she'd once worn to try and entice Sherlock into having coffee. Surely this wasn't an accident? Pulling back out her phone, she rang Greg and quickly detailed her thoughts. He asked her to put it in a plastic bag and said he'd meet her at work to collect it.

A couple of hours later saw Molly well into her first autopsy of the day. It was an old man who'd fallen down the stairs and hit his head – routine. She was glad not to have anything complicated.

Lestrade arrived.

"Morning, Molly. How are you today?"

"I'm ok. I brought the lipstick." She held out the ziplock bag.

"Thanks. Listen, we identified the victim. Just a normal Joe soap – unemployed accountant. Funny thing though, his name. James Holmes."

"As in Moriarty's first name and…"

"Exactly. Can't be a coincidence."

"Hmm, well, then, this seems like a trifle but I was wearing that lipstick the first time I met Sherlock. I've no idea how anyone other than me would know or remember that but with this name thing, who knows?! What are the odds of finding someone with those 2 names?"

"We'll look into it…I'm sure it's possible. More importantly though, Molly, I'm putting a police escort on you. Moriarty's got you in his sights and we've no Sherlock to help us outwit him this time."

Greg squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. "That bastard. If he hadn't jumped…"

"I suppose he felt he had no other choice, Greg," she replied gently.

"There's always some other option. It was just so selfish of him!" he shouted back.

Molly tried to defuse the situation. "Look, Greg, I don't need a guard. I'm safe here at the hospital. I've new locks at home. I'm going over to Baker St after work tonight.

"No way, Molly. It's too late. He'll be here shortly. He's excellent – recently promoted out of the detective pool into my department. Ah, here he is."

The door opened and a red-haired man entered. He was neatly dressed in a suit and tie.

"DI Lestrade," he nodded.

"Molly, I'd like you to meet your new best mate, DC Simon Scully."

Simon held out his hand and Molly shook it. He was quite good-looking in a scruffy puppy sort of way. He hadn't bothered to shave for at least 3 days and brown eyes were partially obscured by smudged glasses, which looked like they might have belonged to his grandfather.

"Simon will be your shadow for the foreseeable future. He'll escort you to work and home every evening, check the place over and then leave for the night. We'll have some others watching the building. When you're at work, he'll be here with you."

"Great," Molly feigned enthusiasm really badly.

"Oh now Molly, don't look so glum. It's for your own good. Right, I better get this lipstick off to the crime lab. Simon, I'll check in with you later," Greg gave Molly a little wave and left.

Left alone, Molly smiled and said "er, I was just going to make some tea, do you want some?"

"Sure. I'll come with you. Can't be too careful. I can tell you're not so keen on having someone like me around all the time but from what I hear, it's a wise precaution. I think DI Lestrade fancies you," Simon cracked a smile, trying to lighten the mood.

"Oh, no, sure, he's um married." Jeez, she'd turned into a 3 year old parody of herself around Sherlock!

As Molly made the tea, she internally panicked.

Oh crap. What am I going to do now? How will I get a message to Sherlock? I can't just go over there. Simon's sure to have been fully briefed on the case and he'll recognise him immediately. Think, Molly, think. What would Sherlock do? He'd give Simon the slip. How will I do that? Hmm. Wait until he leaves me at home for the night. Ok, calm down. Sherlock's not expecting you until tomorrow night at the earliest so there's time to plan this. Oh, better tell John we'll have company for the evening.

"Simon, I hope you don't mind, but I have plans with John Watson this evening…I'll just be at his place."

"Then that's where I'll be too, Molly."

"Super," she answered, taking out her phone and texting John.

Have acquired bodyguard.

He will be with me later.

Sorry.

MH

Thought Lestrade might do that.

See you later.

J.

*ooo*

Simon and John had not hit it off. First, Simon had insisted on going into every room before he let Molly past the hallway at Baker St. Then, he insisted on tasting her food in case it was poisoned. John said this was ridiculous because how would Moriarty know what pizza company they would call, etc. The number of times which Simon said the phrase "I'm just doing my job, mate" was climbing steadily, as was John's temper. In fact, Simon's use of the word "mate" seemed to piss him off most of all. It made for a very uncomfortable evening. Simon seemed to think that John had designs on Molly, which was ridiculous.

"Guys, seriously, can't we just play a board game or something?"

"I suppose so. I'll just get Cluedo."

John unseated the knife which held the Cluedo board to the chimneypiece, smiling at the memory of the time he and Sherlock had played it, and quickly found himself pinned to the floor.

"Put the knife down, Doctor."

"Oh come on. It was holding the board in place! Molly, call off your guard dog."

"Simon, I think that was a bit uncalled for."

Simon released John.

"Sorry, mate," he said, not sounding a bit apologetic.

"Maybe I should just head home now, John. It's been a long day."

"Yeah, ok. I'll call you tomorrow, right?"

"Sure, thanks for the food."

Molly picked up her things and followed Simon out the door. One small benefit of having him around was the lift home. No Tube tonight. Once home, Simon did his search and took his leave of her. Molly had never been so glad to see anyone go. Sitting down in her big cosy armchair, she began opening her post. Phone bill. Electricity bill. Littlewoods catalogue. Pathology Today. Oh, postcard? She saw the picture first. It was a waterfall. Turning it over, she saw it was the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, postmarked from there. As she read the single line message, she let out a little squeal.

"Dr Hooper, you've been keeping secrets!"


	6. Chapter 6

Shit!

Was Molly's first thought. Her second saw her leaping up, putting her shoes and coat on and making for the door. Then she paused. Who was watching her building? If it was the police, they'd recognise her. If it was someone else…well, she didn't even want to finish that thought. She needed some sort of disguise. Where was Sherlock when you needed him? Oh yes, this whole thing was his bloody fault!

She strode into her bedroom and flung open the doors of the wardrobe. What would be a good un-Molly disguise? She ran her fingers along the rail, disregarding almost everything as ordinary and comfy. Her eyes glanced past and then back at….yes, that might do. It would require a lot of make-up, but it was different enough that a police person who'd never met her before might not recognise her. She got to work. Lucky it wasn't too late. Would she ever have a normal night at home again?

Molly stumbled in the stairwell, cursing her stupid high heels. She would have blisters tomorrow. Some looking out the window with the lights off had shown her which car was the unmarked detectives and she walked quickly in the opposite direction.

**oo**

It might not have been late but Sherlock's time spent indoors doing nothing much meant that he succumbed to sleep a lot more than he had when he was "alive". When Molly opened the door to his safe house, it was all in darkness, despite being only 11pm. And there she was again, out here on a work night. It was really starting to piss her off, so she didn't hesitate to stalk directly into his bedroom, snap on the light and shake him awake.

Sherlock had been having a lovely dream. He was at home in Baker St. John was typing up their latest case on the blog and Sherlock was deriding it as not having been worth getting dressed for. Suddenly Mrs Hudson was shouting at them to get up for school and Sherlock found himself waking up.

Molly Hooper stood towering over him as he blinked at the sudden harsh light. At least, it resembled Molly in size and shape. As he woke up properly, he noted her appearance properly.

Dress from the Christmas party

Nothing on underneath it

Stockings

Hair pulled into a high tight bun and gelled

Dark eye make-up and red lipstick

Very high heels

It was both horrifying and fascinating.

Meanwhile, Molly seemed to be saying something about a postcard, he should probably pay attention.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

"Say that again?" He sat up in bed.

Molly temporarily lost her train of thought as she caught sight of a half-naked man in bed. She stared for a minute until Sherlock, suddenly uncomfortable with scrutiny said;

"I don't know what you're staring at. I'm not the one who looks like the hostess at a goth club circa 1999!"

"I was going for Robert Palmer girl. I had to disguise myself to get out of my flat. The police are watching me. Lestrade made me have a bodyguard and he's horrible. He tried to attack John!"

"What? Your police escort attacked John?! Explain properly, you are making no sense. And who is Robert Palmer?"

Molly threw the postcard at him, ignoring his final question.

"I see. This came today?"

"Yes," her voice strained. "I – I was in John's as requested. Simon dropped me home and I opened my post. I've been at the end of my tether all day wondering how I could give him and police watching my place the slip for tomorrow night, and then when I saw this, I knew I had to come to you straight away, so I thought what was the most unlikely outfit I could up with so they wouldn't recognise me when I left the building. Do you know how cold it is outside? Without a coat? And in this dress?"

"Well done. You did exactly right. It certainly leaves….nothing to the imagination. I almost didn't recognise you for 2 whole seconds. Next time, you could just go for looking old – you know powder your hair and stoop a little while walking slowly…but you've done well. Go back to the part about Sean attacking John."

"Simon. He's a police detective assigned to look after me. He's ok but John went to retrieve the Cluedo board and Simon tackled him to the ground for having a knife. It was ridiculous."

Sherlock nodded. "Ok, well, this postcard settles it. We need to draw Moriarty out into the open. He's clearly not in Switzerland. Lestrade hasn't seen this yet?"

She shook her head, gesturing to her outfit. "You think I stopped to chat – it took me ages to put this stupid look together. I'm really very uncomfortable and cold."

"Yes, so I see," his eyes doing their best not to notice her nipples through the dress.

Unfortunately, sleep had dulled his reflexes so he wasn't quite quick enough.

Molly fake punched him in the shoulder and quickly crossed her arms over her chest. With a half smile, she said, "your powers of observation are undiminished, I see. What were you like as a teenager, I would love to know."

"Luckily, you will never know. Why don't you put my dressing gown on and go make some coffee? I'll join you in a minute."

"Ah yes, I see how you returning to life puts me back in my traditional role as coffee maker…" she shot back, grabbing his suggestion from the end of the bed.

He soon followed her into the kitchen, having failed entirely to get dressed.

"I think I might need a third sugar for this one."

Molly turned around to face him and saw that he hadn't bothered to put a t-shirt on. Despite the impending confrontation, or because of it, she allowed herself to admire openly for a minute before saying'

"Couldn't you cover up? You're very distracting."

"I'm distracting? You have no underwear on! Besides, you're wearing my dressing gown."

Molly was going to win this argument.

"You don't get to be distracted by my appearance now, when I look completely out of character. It's not fair Sherlock and now is not the time for you to develop a libido."

"It was already quite developed, thank you very much, but now is not that time. You're right. We can discuss it after we get Moriarty."

Damn him anyway, thought Molly. I was all geared up for a big argument and he lets me win on the first round.

"Right, so, I'll call Lestrade first thing?"

"Better now."

"Really? Will I ever get a night's sleep again?"

"Sleep is for the weak…" Sherlock retorted rather primly, ignoring his recent somnolent state.

"Well, I'll have to go home and change if I'm going to see Greg."

"He might have a heart attack if he saw you like that. Or an affair."

"Oh shut up will you. My plan worked. No one followed me. How will I explain the time lag in getting home and ringing him?"

"Don't explain. You don't need a reason why you opened your post late."

"How will I explain my secret keeping?"

"Tell him, I'll have to come out of hiding soon anyway. In fact, I'm going to come with you. I really don't think it's safe over night."

"Sherlock, Greg will be over as soon as I call…there's no need."

"I can't just sit here doing nothing, Molly, it's killing me," he used his quiet, dangerous tone to show he meant business.

"Yeah, well, you survived the last time…." She took one final sip of her coffee, removed the dressing gown, treating Sherlock to one last glimpse of a great figure usually kept hidden, ruffling his hair as she walked by, and left.

*ooo*

Sherlock was right about one thing: Greg did come straight over. Luckily, Molly had time to de-goth. She was not looking forward to this revelation. The door bell rang and she buzzed him in.

Opening the door to anticipate his knock, she discovered it was a bad mistake to be so trusting. Sherlock was standing there, wearing his beloved coat for the first time in several weeks. They both spoke at the same time.

"Sherlock! What are you doing here?"

"You should be more careful, Molly. I could have been Moriarty or one of his lackeys."

"I should be more careful?! What the hell are you doing here? How do you even know where I live?"

"Please. It was on the postcard. Are you going to let me in?"

"Fine. Greg's due any minute. Now he really will have that heart attack."

"At least it won't be from over-exposure to you!"

Molly scowled as Sherlock appraised her current outfit – jeans and a t-shirt – much better. He much preferred her this way.

She was relieved not to be breaking the news to Greg. Probably best to sit back and watch the row that would develop.

The wait was not long. Greg arrived within 10 mins of Sherlock and was quickly on his way up in the lift. They had decided that Molly would open the door, usher him and Sherlock would just be there.

"Hey Molly, right, what is it that couldn't wait for the morning?" he said, obviously tired.

"Well, it's actually 2 things now…"

She showed him in and stood back as Lestrade saw Sherlock.

"Fuckin' hell! Have you been alive all this time, you bugger? That is not cool, man. Not Cool."

"I'm sorry, Lestrade, it was necessary. A matter of life or death precipitated my first suicide and now, I believe, a related matter will mean my resurrection," Sherlock spoke calmly.

Molly handed Greg a cup of sweet tea. Good for shock. He took it automatically.

"You knew? You helped?" it all dawned on him quite quickly. For all Sherlock's help, Lestrade was no idiot.

She nodded. "I've been his jailor for all this time. But actually, it's this postcard that decided me on calling you over tonight, and Sherlock insisted on being here."

The three of them looked at the postcard. Lestrade immediately saw why there was no point in hiding Sherlock now.

"Lestrade, I want to be clear that I'm letting you in on this now but I don't want anyone else to know yet. Moriarty has obviously figured out I'm still around and we need to use this to get him into the open."

"One important point, Sherlock, what crime has he actually committed here? Faking your death is only a crime where it involves an insurance fraud. We've got 2 vague threats levelled at Molly here but nothing to connect him other than gut feeling. Even with the knowledge of you being alive, we couldn't charge him."

"Yes, we need to bait him. And who better than his ex-girlfriend?" Sherlock's eyes gleamed as he turned to face a dumb-struck Molly.


	7. Chapter 7

"You are kidding me?! You want him to, what, kidnap me?"

"No, no, we'd be following, it wouldn't be an actual kidnap. Besides, you alone are not enough, he needs to think there's a reason why I would be upset at the loss of you."

Lestrade cottoned on first.

"Sherlock, man, this is a bad idea. You can't let Moriarty think Molly's your girlfriend and then have him steal her away so we can get him on a trumped-up charge. It's not enough. I have another idea. Even though I thought you were dead, still not over that…cried at your funeral…I still believed you were framed. I've managed to piece together some evidence we can use regarding the whole Rich Brook thing but it would be best to get him on tape admitting it."

"That is fantastic news! Maybe we can combine the two ideas," said Sherlock.

"Wait a minute!" Molly's louder than usual voice cut through. "I haven't agreed to this. We're all already in enough danger as it is. Yes, even you Greg. Sherlock has conveniently omitted the reason why he faked his death. Moriarty had hits on you, Mrs Hudson and John. If he hadn't "killed himself" then you were all going to die."

Lestrade was thunderstruck. He looked incredulously from Molly to Sherlock as if they were playing some sort of tennis.

"Dude," was his slow response. If there was ever a time to start using ridiculous slang, it was now.

"I don't know what to say." Instead, he actually went over and hugged Sherlock.

Sherlock was uncomfortable, appalled at having to hug Lestrade and secretly pleased. For all his care and planning, he'd never actually stopped to think how the 3 would react when they finally knew he had given up his life to save theirs. After a moment, he broke free.

"Yes, well, that's quite alright. Now, back to matters at hand. Molly, we have to do this. It'll be easy. We'll put on a show for old Jim. I'm sure we can pretend to be in love for an evening in public. He's sure to be watching."

Molly blushed at the thought and finally nodded but said nothing. Sherlock grinned.

"Well, that's settled."

Lestrade, seeming to catch some undercurrent that Sherlock didn't, picked up the postcard and said:

"Right, I'll leave you to it. Molly, I'll start making arrangements. You two come up with a plan for something tomorrow night and we'll get surveillance in place. Ring me in the morning."

Molly showed him out and came back to the sitting room. Sherlock watched her carefully.

"So, Molly, let's plan the most perfect date either of us has ever had. Well, that won't be difficult on my part…not my area."

She cut him off.

"Listen, can we talk about this tomorrow? I'm knackered. I'll call in sick."

"We really should get started now."

"You can get started now if you want, but I'm going to bed."

"Ok, leave me your computer."

Molly gestured at her desk, where her laptop was turned on, and stomped out of the room without another word. Sherlock wondered what he could possibly have done wrong now. Women!

*oo*

Several hours of research had filled the time while Molly slept. Sherlock was now fully versed in how the internet thought perfect dates should go. However, to be completely authentic and to fool Moriarty, it needed to be her perfect date, in fact both their idea of a perfect date. He suspected they would not be compatible. His idea of a really good time was chasing people through the streets of London and outwitting them with superior intellect, followed by a nice curry. Why couldn't Moriarty have picked John for this particular task? That'd be no good though, John would never have consented to pretending Sherlock was his boyfriend, even in an attempt to catch Moriarty, who wouldn't have been fooled anyway. John was far too concerned that "others" might believe they were gay as it was, and that it was ruining his potential chances with all the female population of London. But he digressed. They'd have to be convincing in public. It couldn't look like faking. There would have to be practice beforehand. Might as well start now, he thought.

Molly awoke to the smell of freshly percolated coffee, which was suspiciously on her nightstand. She shrugged, sat up and took a sip. It was just right. It seemed Sherlock did pay attention to these things after all. She flung on her dressing gown and ventured outside, hugging her cup.

"Oh there you are. I didn't know what you wanted for breakfast so I made a few options."

She stared at the laden table. There was cereal, toast, pancakes and eggs.

"You can cook?"

"Of course. I do eat, you know. I just couldn't be bothered most of the time."

"Well, I'm not complaining. Does John know about this?"

Sherlock beamed and shook his head. "No, and don't tell him either!"

Molly didn't waste any time and tucked in, eating more than her fair share of what was on offer. Sherlock watched her eat and listened as she made small noises of delight and satisfaction. It was interesting – would she be like this at other times? Appalled at the salacious turn of his own thoughts, no doubt from reading about romance all night, he took up some toast and buttered it furiously.

Appetite satiated, Molly regarded Sherlock who was attacking some toast.

"So how will we do this?" she asked nervously.

Sherlock had apparently never been told that it was bad manners to talk with your mouth full, so he launched into speech, regardless of his toast.

"We will need to be entirely convincing. Moriarty is almost as smart as me: we'll have to practice."

"Practice what?"

"Er, pretending."

"Sherlock, you aren't making any sense!"

He put his toast down and cleared his throat. Molly thought he sounded a bit nervous but suspected she was imagining things.

"In order to be credible, we should get used to each other in private first. We…" he paused and licked his lips.

"Sherlock, are you trying to say that we should kiss each other now so that when we perform later, it won't look like the first time?" her voice was a little higher pitched than normal.

"Yes," he replied, nerves now very much showing. "Would that be alright?"

"Honestly. For a clever man, you are incredibly naïve. Of course, it's fine. We've all been in plays at school: rehearsal is the key to good show," exasperation apparent in her voice.

"Right. I thought you might mind."

"Ha, I thought you'd be the one minding."

They lapsed into silence and continued eating. Sherlock started clearing things away. Molly watched him – the most domesticated she'd ever seen him. He hadn't been asleep either – a day's worth of stubble on his face. This kissing was going to burn. As silently as possible, she arose and stood behind him. He sensed her presence and turned around. Mentally gathering herself, Molly stood on her tiptoes to look him straight in the eye and firmly planted her lips on his. This was it. A kiss she dreamed of. And…nothing. What a let down! Sherlock stood there, immobile, with his eyes open, regarding her curiously. Molly let out of sigh of frustration and backed off.

"What?" he said innocently.

"Have you ever kissed anyone before, anyone at all?"

"Of course," he scoffed.

"We're not counting mothers, aunts or grannies here. Real women."

"Of course."

"Well, based on that, I would say you are lying, Mr Holmes. That kiss wouldn't fool a 2 year old child!"

"You caught me unawares. I wasn't ready."

"Uhuh, right, and you think all kisses start with a clearly telegraphed intention, do you? Especially amongst established couples?"

"Point taken."

"Right, well think about that while I go have a shower." She left the room. Sherlock found it much more likely that he was going to think about her in the shower. Oh. An idea occurred. He raced after her, catching her just as she went to open the bathroom door. She turned around and Sherlock pushed her against the door. Leaning his whole body against her, he inclined his head and gently caught her lips. This time he closed his eyes. He even wanted to. Molly put one delicate hand up to the back of his neck and pulled him closer. Then, taking charge, she tilted her head and forced him to open his mouth. Much better. Both of them were breathing shallowly now. All of sudden, she pushed him away. Sherlock opened his eyes, confused at the stopping. In one move, she opened the bathroom door and stepped over the threshold.

"Well done. That's better."

"Oh come on, that was more than better! That was fantastic. I'd have given myself at least an 8 there."

"I've had better," she said lightly, and closed the bathroom door in his face.

Sherlock slumped against the opposite wall. Had better? He'd show her.

Inside the bathroom, Molly ran the shower and stood under it. She ran her fingers over her lips. Ok, she might have been lying a bit about the kiss but she didn't want his ego to get any larger than it already was.

Sherlock sat slumped on the couch in his usual prayer-like pose when Molly reappeared in waft of floral smells and clean clothes. This notion of play-acting had awakened a boldness in her that neither of them had really seen before. She plonked herself down on Sherlock's lap.

"Get off!" He sat up straight immediately.

"Nope. You have to appear used to me. At the moment, you look like a mistress at a family wake. That's no good." She stroked his cheek, almost like he were a baby that needed soothing. He leaned back and tentatively put one arm around her waist. His other arm had never seemed so spare. Molly's eyes sparkled with amusement as she grabbed it and put his hand on her knee.

"You're really terrible at this. And you thought I'd be the one having a hard time with this plan. Have you deduced what my perfect date would be yet?"

"Of course, but it's no good because watching videos in your flat isn't public, so we'll have to come up with something else."

"Touché," she nodded. "Hmm, what would we like to do together?"

"Autopsies?"

"I hope that was a joke," she scowled and then her face lit up as she said

"Oh oh I've got it. There's a museum of medical curiosities and early surgical equipment in Holborn. We could go there and then get some dinner."

"You are the strangest woman I have ever met."

"Come on, you know you're interested in that sort of thing too."

She moved to get off his knee, but he tightened his grip not allowing her to move.

"Hey, let go, I'll ring Greg and tell him to arrange surveillance. We need to find a suitable restaurant near there. I'm glad we're going for a daytime plan. Fewer places for him to hide," she rambled on.

"The call can wait five minutes. We need to try that kiss again."

"Of course, I forgot you had a whole hour of thinking to improve on the last one. Go on, then, amaze me," she closed her eyes in mock-preparation.

Sherlock surprised her by kissing her, not on the lips but on the cheek.

"What kind of a kiss is that?"

"The sort of kiss one gives his girlfriend in public. We're over doing it with the other kind. Established couples don't snog in the open – they're secure in their relationship. We'll hold hands, some of the time, obviously. Body language is actually more important than the physical show."

"Oh," said Molly, deflated. She'd been enjoying this notion a little bit too much. She rose from her seat in Sherlock's lap and retrieved her pc. Passing it to him, she said

"Look up restaurants near the Hunterian. I'll call Greg."

He noticed her tone and smiled to himself. They both had been enjoying the kissing a little bit too much and it was distracting them from the task at hand. There'd be time to discuss it after the case. He zoned back in to hear the end of Molly's conversation with Lestrade.

"…yes, it's part of the Royal College of Surgeons. Don't take that tone – we're trying to come up with something realistic. Do you know any restaurants around there? Oh a curry house? Perfect. Right, ok, we'll aim to be at the museum at about 3pm then. I reckon it doesn't get a lot of visitors so there's minimal chances of risking other people's lives. Right, fine. See you later." She hung up.

"Moriarty's not going to just appear because we do, you know. There'll almost certainly be a follow-up meeting. We'll need to get surveillance equipment in here, and I better plan to stay again tonight."

"Well, you should go to your safe house and clean up anyway. I'll call you a taxi. Be back to collect me at 2.30."

He nodded and stood up.

"Sherlock, don't forget to greet me as a girlfriend later…"

"I will be perfectly in character."


	8. Chapter 8

John was getting nowhere with his investigation. He had to face facts: he was no good at this without Sherlock. He was the one would could work it all out. John found himself treading a now familiar path to Sherlock's grave. Since his first visit there had allowed some measure of comfort, perhaps now it could aid him in his thinking. Sherlock would point the way to help Molly.

Sherlock stood looking at his wardrobe, now sadly reduced since he was not at Baker St. What did one wear on dates? He supposed other men might wear a suit or make some level of effort? He already did that all the time. Was it ok for him to look the same as usual? Sherlock decided he was far too concerned about this appearance on a fake date with a woman who already liked him and didn't need further encouragement. He closed the cupboard door.

Molly stood in front of her wardrobe knowing what she should wear and yet afraid of it. Molly was a secret guilt-ridden shopper. She would buy gorgeous, fitted, flattering outfits and, most of the time, returned them unworn after deciding they weren't really her. However, the latest outfit had not gone back yet. She was, for once, going to keep this one.

Sherlock arrived promptly at 2:30 and texted Molly to come down. She responded by saying she'd be right there. Sherlock waited on the steps up to her front door. When it opened, Molly astonished him for the second time that week with her appearance. Molly was wearing a ¾ length petrol blue leather trench coat, which was open. Underneath, skin tight jeans showed off surprisingly shapely legs with sensible boots on. A wool jumper in dark purple with flecks of something sparkly completed the outfit. Her hair was down, her face was made up and Sherlock had never seen her look more perfect.

She smiled when she saw him. He looked exactly as normal – how typical of him. Molly bounced down the steps and leaped into his arms, throwing her own around his neck. Sherlock's eyes fleetingly showed irritation and then quick as a flash, he leaned in to give her a kiss. Molly almost held her breath as their lips touched. He went for a slow, closed mouth kiss, almost lazy in its execution. Damn him, it was exactly the sort of kiss she'd expect from a boyfriend in greeting. Nothing like the lust fuelled snog of that morning but in many ways better and more intimate. Sherlock broke off with a smile.

"Are you ready? I thought we'd walk. Unless those heels are too high?"

"No, they're fine," she said, taking his arm.

"You look gorgeous, by the way," he added.

"Thanks, love."

Sherlock couldn't help thinking how odd it was playing a show for an invisible audience. Moriarty and his people might be anyone, anywhere. They couldn't break character for even a second.

"Did you get that paperwork done?" he enquired.

"What paperwork?" Molly asked, not catching on.

"The stuff that mean you stood me up last night, darling," he said with a small stress on the endearment.

"Oh, oh yes, of course. I'm sorry about it, Sherlock. I'm going to make it up to you later though," she smiled - a twinkle in her eye betraying that Dr Hopper was enjoying this a little bit too much.

"What did you have in mind?" – Two could play that game.

"Now that would ruin the surprise! But let's just say, these are not the only new clothes I have," she said mysteriously.

Sherlock decided that no answer was the right answer and did his best to effect the look of a lust-entranced man, which wasn't actually a challenge, even if he wasn't quite ready to own the feeling yet.

As they approached the Royal College of Surgeons, Sherlock spotted several plain clothes detectives. He told himself that he was on the lookout: they were not that obvious.

The museum was spread out over two floors. Molly had been spot on: neither had to feign an interest in the odd array of exhibits. They ranged from body parts and foetuses in jars of formaldehyde to actual skeletons of humans, male, female, adult and children. It was the physical deformities which interested Molly the most, whereas Sherlock preferred the section devoted to phrenology – the 19th century pseudo-science of what the bumps in one's skull could deduce about an individual's character and personality. The Hunterian had an interactive exhibit where visitors could use the phrenology skull to examine and interpret someone's head. Sherlock forced Molly into the chair.

"Now, Molly, let's see what your skull says about you."

He consulted the text and then placed his fingers lightly on her head. She giggled obligingly.

"Above average intelligence is indicated by the enlarged frontal section. This bump here suggests an over fondness for felines." He moved his fingers down to the base of the neck.

"Oh yes, and this one here tells me that you are very loyal to your friends and a much stronger person that most would suspect."

He swept her hair out of the way and placed a quick kissed in that spot.

"But I already have the first hand evidence of that trait," he whispered, causing her to shiver slightly.

She jumped out of the chair and pushed him down.

"My turn to deduce," she smiled at using his "word".

"Hmm. This here indicates a massive ego."

"It does not. The science of phrenology predates Freud's work by about 100 years!"

"Quiet you! And this bump here shows the subject can be stubborn, intractable and is given to thinking he is always right."

Sherlock made a snarling noise. Molly's hands soothed him as she added "and this one here indicates a creative streak – that's your violin playing."

"I think that's quite enough running your fingers through my hair now," Sherlock stood up.

"Ahem, yes, to be continued later, in private," she answered, cheekily slapping him on the bum.

They meandered around the exhibits happily for another hour and then repaired to the nearby curry house that Lestrade had found and infiltrated, once again holding hands as they strolled. It was all too easy to forget that this was a show thought Sherlock. He was having a great time, as good as any of the times he'd had with John.

Meanwhile, John had arrived at Sherlock's grave. It looked just as it had on his other visits with one important difference. Some idiot had left a half eaten apple on the top of the headstone. It sat there in mockery of the Jewish custom of placing a stone to indicate you had visited the deceased. John picked it up to throw away and realised someone had carved IOU into it. Weird, he thought, as he tossed it into the trees. He cleared away some other leaves and sat down, ignoring the damp ground. Sherlock's grave said nothing.

"Well, here I am. I need your help, mate. We've got to help Molly. Moriarty's after her. We've no way to find him and, apart from police protection, no way to look out for her either. I wish I'd paid more attention when you were being brilliant. Could've taken notes or something. The truth is: I didn't ever expect to be doing this alone."

A shadow loomed over John and he turned around to find Simon, Molly's irritating detective bodyguard. He looked for the diminutive pathologist but she was nowhere to be seen.

"John, thank goodness I've found you," Simon's words tumbled out in a rush.

"We couldn't get hold of you and Lestrade said you sometimes come here."

"Did he?" John didn't ever remember mentioning his mildly silly talking to Sherlock's grave habit to the DI.

"Where's Molly?"

"That's just it! She's missing. We think Moriarty's taken her!"

"Oh my god!" John stood up. "When did this happen?"

"Well, I dropped her off last night and checked over her flat: it was fine. But when I went to collect her this morning for work, there was no one home. I won't lie, John, there were signs of a forced entry. It looks like she fought whoever he sent to get her. Let's go. Lestrade's set up an incident room at the Yard."

John nodded and followed the detective to his car, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach.

Moriarty watched as the gullible Dr Watson got into Simon's car. Sherlock's live-in pet was so stupid. Why would he want Molly when John was the real prize? Sherlock would always come for his blogger: that was clear a long time ago. Jim wasn't sure kind of game Sherlock was playing with Molly – they both knew she was just a diversion. No, John would bring Sherlock out to play, and this time, the job would be finished properly.

Molly was having the best date of her life. Sherlock could be so charming and funny when he wanted to be. Of course, this was the plan; a nagging little voice reminded her. They were eating really good curry, tasting each other's food, fighting over naan bread, when Sherlock's phone beeped.

No sign of anything.

GL

As they finished up, Molly said "So, you're coming back to my place, right?"

He nodded and paid the bill.

"I would have paid my half! I'm sure it was my turn."

"Never mind, let's get going."

Back at her place, there was no sign of anything untoward. Sherlock immediately phoned Lestrade who still had nothing to report but warned it was now that they should worry. Molly asked what Greg had done with Simon.

"Oh yes, he'll be back with you tomorrow to take you to work."

When they were finished talking to Lestrade, Molly said

"I had a surprisingly good time, Sherlock."

"Why the tone of surprise?"

"I thought you would have a hard time pretending but you were fine. I almost forgot it was a show once or twice."

"Me too. It was tolerable, I suppose."

Taking a deep breath, Molly looked over at him.

"Sherlock, how did it feel to kiss me?"

He found he could not look her in the eye.

"It was exactly as expected."

"Right." She didn't bother to hide the tone of disappointment which crept into her voice.

Sherlock wanted to say that what he meant by "exactly as expected" was "the most amazing feeling I've ever experienced" but he wasn't quite able to get the words out. He was saved by a text to Molly's phone. It was from Mrs Hudson – of all people.

Is John with you? I haven't heard from him – not answering his phone. It's most unlike him.

Molly showed Sherlock the text, her eyes filled with genuine fear.

"I'm sure he's fine," she said, not very convincingly.

"Or Moriarty planned this all along."

"Surely not. Why involve me at all in that case?"

"To distract me, of course."

"How…how am I a distraction for you?"

"He knows me better than I thought. Maybe even better than I know myself on certain fronts."

"Answer my question, Sherlock."

"No, we have to call Lestrade. Moriarty will make contact with me soon. He'll have John somewhere and I'll have to go to him. It's the only way to release John."


	9. Chapter 9

John sat innocently in the passenger seat as Simon drove. He soon realised that they were not headed for Scotland Yard.

"Simon, where are you taking me? We should have turned left back there."

"Sorry, can't explain to civilians. Don't worry."

"Nah, I've really got to insist on an explanation. I'll just ring Lestrade."

Simon responded by ripping John's phone from his hand and throwing it out the window.

"What the f…" he started as he saw the gun in Simon's hand.

"What is this?"

"There's rather a lot you don't know, man, but it's all going to become very clear shortly. Now just sit there quietly. I don't want to have to shoot you in the knee."

Despite or perhaps because of his army training, John was not the kind of man to jump from a moving vehicle, so he had little choice but to obey.

Sherlock was pacing. Molly's cat was keeping time with him. Molly was sitting nervously and fidgeting with her hair. They heard the chime of a mobile phone but it wasn't hers. They looked around and soon found a new iphone on her coffee table. There was a photo of the two of them kissing set as the wallpaper, taken earlier that day. An unread text was waiting.

Having fun playing house? Wouldn't have expected you to go for my seconds!

Sherlock grabbed the phone and dialled the number. It rang once and was picked up.

"Finally! After all this time, he calls me. I was starting to think you didn't care, Sherlock."

"Where's John?"

"Oh, straight to the point. Well don't worry, love, he's unharmed but whether he stays that way is up to you."

"What do you want?"

"Come to the morgue at St Barts. Let's end this where we started. And no police. But bring the little Mrs: I've a feeling she'll be useful."

He hung up.

John found himself at the morgue in St Barts. But unlike his previous visits, he was being held at gunpoint and Moriarty had just appeared. He looked as neat and kempt as ever, with that slightly mad glint in his eyes.

"John, I'm delighted to see you. Sit down there, I've lots to tell you."

"What the hell is this?!" John was sick of being a good boy.

"Temper, temper. Sherlock wouldn't want me to upset his little pet."

"Yeah, well, in case you have forgotten, you already caused his death so I don't think he'll mind anything at all."

Moriarty shook his head.

"John, it just breaks my heart to tell you this but you've been lied to. He's alive."

"What kind of sick joke is this?"

"It's no joke, love. Alive, in hiding and oh yes in love with someone else! Look, I've got a cute picture."

John glared at the proffered phone. He blinked twice at the image. That it was Sherlock was clear. And he was kissing Molly! This could have been taken anytime before his death, though it was hard to believe that they'd ever kissed and neither had told him.

"Now, I know what you're going to say – this could have been taken at any time. But look, you were at Molly's yesterday. That billboard in the background is current."

"I don't believe you. Sherlock's dead. And even if he weren't, he'd have to undergo some major trauma or personality transplant before he'd kiss anyone with such passion."

"You mean like the trauma of faking your own death? I know. Shush. It's ok. He's moved on without you. You've had a shock. Would you like a hug?"

"Get off me! This is ludicrous. I don't believe it."

John barely felt the hypodermic needle as he struggled free of Moriarty's embrace and fell to the floor, out cold.

"We need to get going."

"We need to call Lestrade."

"He said no police."

"I don't care. We need backup."

"Molly, we don't know what's happened yet. Let's just go and see first."

"No, I'm calling Greg." She ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind her and made the call while Sherlock pounded on the door. After a minute, he seemed to lose momentum and shouted that he was going to down to hail a taxi.

Joining him outside, she laid a hand on Sherlock's arm.

"John's going to be fine."

He shook off her arm.

"How many times do I have to die to save him?" Sherlock's voice cracked as he spoke,

"Just once. None of us could cope with it a second time – you included. I know this feels awful right now but we'll beat him and everything can go back to the way it was before."

"I can't believe I fell for his play. There was a time, quite recently, when I wouldn't have believed for a moment that you were at risk. My brother once said to me that caring was not an advantage and I am sorry to say that once again Mycroft has proven himself correct. We've been running around today pretending our little world was perfect – and it was – that's what Moriarty wanted from me. He wants me preoccupied by beautiful women, lust and emotions so that he can run in and pull the rug from me."

"So you are distracted by me?"

Even though they were standing in the street, his response was instant. He pulled Molly to him and kissed her fiercely – all tongues and heavy breathing. His arms wrapped around her waist beneath her open coat and he slightly lifted her off the ground. Just as suddenly, he pulled away, fighting to get his breathing under control.

"Yes," he said curtly as a taxi drew up to the curb.

The ride to the hospital was silent, each of them lost in thoughts.

Molly couldn't believe he had admitted his feelings for her, albeit in a backhanded insulting kind of way. Progress was progress. They would have to have a grown-up conversation once this thing was done. And then Molly decided she was a terrible person for thinking about her love life when John's actual life hung in the balance.

It was still so hard to reconcile Jim from IT with Moriarty the master criminal but that, she supposed, was his talent.

Sherlock's thoughts were more along the concern for John's life lines.

"I will kill him, and then resuscitate him and kill him again if he as much as breaks a fingernail! What do I have to do to keep them safe? Once this is over, I will have to leave London. Damn Mycroft! John will find out I'm alive and then I'll have to break him again by leaving. And Molly! This time she'll be broke too. Maybe they'll comfort each other. In another life, the three of us could have been so happy together. Where the hell did that come from?! I really need to leave."

Sherlock and Molly got to the morgue before the police. They had agreed Lestrade and his team would stay back until the situation was assessed.

Moriarty had left them a note on the door.

"Come in and join the party! We're just dying to see you."

Inside, John was tied to an autopsy table. He had been gagged and stripped to the waist. Someone had set out Molly's scalpels. His eyes were closed, so probably drugged. Moriarty was nowhere in sight but Molly got a shock when Simon appeared.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were off duty today!"

"Molly, it would appear your bodyguard is a double agent," deduced Sherlock.

"Fantastic deduction, Mr notsodead Holmes. Yes, Jim and I go way back. You could say he was my mentor. It is my honour to be with him at his finest hour."

"Where is he?"

"He's here," said a Dublin accent from behind them, holding a gun tightly with two hands.

"I'm so happy to see you, Sherlock. Look how far you've fallen since, well, since you fell. Turns out you're more ordinary than I thought. All that snuggling with Molly here. I thought you were married to your work. Wasn't that your excuse to John and Irene? What's Molly got that broke you? I could've broken you – I could have played the mousy adoration line. Why don't you want me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes widened as he listened to Moriarty's bizarre pseudo-love confession.

"Sherlock, we could have been so great together. Like a modern day Bonnie & Clyde. What a life we could have shared. No crime to big for me to cause or you to solve. We could have taunted the police of London and then when we got bored, moved on to somewhere else. But no, you were ordinary with your pet blogger and your little girlfriend. Oh look, the doctor will see you now," he finished as John stirred.

John awoke and opened his eyes. He tried to stretch but found he couldn't move his arms. As he realised where he was, he began to struggle. Sherlock made a move towards him and Moriarty, gesturing with the gun said;

"Oh go on, have your dramatic reunion! I'm sure it will be BAFTA winning."

Sherlock approached the metal table where John lay. John turned his head and saw Sherlock alive and standing in front of him. He started making noises but his gag was too tight.

"John, I know this is a shock. Please know that everything I have done has been to protect you and the others, though it does appear I have failed."

He leaned down as if to kiss his cheek and whispered,

"It'll be alright. We have backup."

John's eyes darkened with surprise and he again struggled to speak but couldn't. From the other side of the room, Moriarty laughed.

"Touching. Breaks my heart." Turning to Molly he continued, "Bet it breaks yours too, baby. Now, if you like to scrub up, you can get started on your autopsy. He's waiting on the table."

Molly jumped as he spoke but she didn't move.

"You want me to perform a post-mortem ante-mortem?"

"Exactly, ooh, Sherlock's been training you up. She catches on much quicker now," he said to himself.

"To be more accurate, sweetie, I want you to do the mort part. I like the poetic justice of you killing Sherlock's other pet."

Simon exclaimed loudly at this.

"You said I could do it. I so enjoyed the last one!"

"Oh for god's sake, why can I not get decent staff?"

Quick as a flash, Sherlock grabbed one of the scalpels and got Simon in a headlock, the knife at his throat.

"Drop the gun."

"Moriarty looked around and smiled a huge toothy grin.

"Oh Sherly, you still don't get it. I don't care about Simon here. I'll kill him myself if you like. But now you've forced my hand. You can keep one. Molly or John. I'll count to, what do bad guys count to? 10? Ok, I'll count to 10 and then you choose. The blogger or the snogger?"

"Sherlock, it's ok, pick John," said Molly desperately.

"One."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not choosing one of you."

Simon, who had been silent, started to struggle, forcing Sherlock to pay attention.

"Two."

And then a number of things all happened at once.

"Three."

Sherlock pushed Simon away from him, suddenly, and towards Moriarty. Molly flew over to John and grabbed another scalpel. Moriarty grunted in surprise as Simon was launched at him and the gun went off. Molly jumped as she was knifing through John's wrist ties and nicked his arm. Sherlock dived for Simon and Moriarty as an almighty melee got going. Then Lestrade arrived with an armed squad.

"What? Have it missed it all?"

The dust settled: Simon and Moriarty were taken away in handcuffs. John got up unsteadily and nodding his thanks to Molly, came to stand in front of his friend.

"Tomorrow, we're going to have a very large row and I will most likely hit you. But for now, I am just really really glad to see you."

He threw his arms around Sherlock and they hugged. John didn't even care that he was half-naked hugging another man in public but it was a one time only not caring. Sherlock realised that there was no way he could leave these people again.

Molly looked on sadly. Things really wouldn't be the same from now on. Suddenly she found one long coated arm jerk her forward and she was pulled into the hug. After a minute, John pulled away.

"I have questions."

Sherlock cut him off before he could get the first one out.

"I'm sure you do, but you are in shock. You need a blanket."

"You're right. Moriarty showed me a picture of you two kissing. I can tell from your clothes that it was today. What's that about?" He sat down on a nearby chair. "I do need a blanket," he added absently.

"It's a long story," answered Molly. "We were just acting."

"Acting?" cried Sherlock. "I wasn't acting? Are you saying that you were?"

Molly was more than a little surprised by this outburst.

"Em, what? Of course we were acting! It was to draw out Jim, I mean, Moriarty."

"And you promised you would take me back to yours afterwards and…" Sherlock trailed off, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"Got you!"

"Oh you bastard, Sherlock Holmes" might have been what you'd expect Molly to reply but the words came from the other doctor in the room.

"Have you been messing Molly around again?! After her helping you fake your own death. I rescind my earlier comment. I may well hit you now as well as tomorrow."

The three of them stood looking at each other.

Finally, Sherlock said "Molly, perhaps we should talk in private."

"Yes, let's. Come into my office."

She closed the door behind them.

"So the danger is passed once again," she said, nervously.

"It has. And with it, the need to hide my continued existence. Tomorrow I can begin to reassemble my old life."

"Where do I fit into this new old life?" asked a much bolder than she felt Molly.

"Well, in many ways, you will be exactly where you always were. By my side in the lab, assisting with the more technical details of murders."

"I see," she said tightly.

"But I am hoping you'll branch out into a heretofore unseen area."

She moved closer and faced him.

"What's that then? I can't agree to a new role without having the full particulars. What if I don't have the right skill set?"

"Oh I assure you, you do. Molly, I don't want to play games. I don't, I mean, I have never wanted a woman in my life or my bed before but the last few weeks have led me to see that I was wrong to exclude that aspect of life. In short, I have been missing out. And more specifically, I don't want to be without you."

"Sherlock," she breathed his name out as she pulled him into a fierce rug. Molly could feel his heart beating double time and she catalogued fully blown out pupils, shallow breathing and a mild tremble.

"What do you deduce? I see you are scanning me for symptoms."

"I deduce sincerity and desire. Most surprising."

"Is that a yes then?"

"Oh was there a question?"

He smiled broadly.

"No, actually, I may have omitted it. Molly Hooper, will you please be more than my pathologist?"

"Is that the best you can do? Seriously. I'm not expecting marriage proposals on bended knee here but can you not even say the word "girlfriend"? Fine, I'll ask you. Sherlock Holmes, will you be my boyfriend?"

"I will, though I'm not sure I can agree to you using that term in public."

"Terms can be discussed later."

"Is that before or after I see the rest of your new clothes?"

She pulled him tight to her and kissed him for all she was worth.

John and Lestrade looked on through the glass door, mystified. Definitely more conversation to be had tomorrow.


End file.
